"Sir Tristram, of thy courtesy,
Pledge me in my golden cup."
Let them drink it; let their hands
Tremble, and their cheeks be flame,
As they feel the fatal bands
Of a love they dare not name,
With a wild delicious pain,
Twine about their hearts again!
Let the early summer be
Once more round them, and the sea
Blue, and o'er its mirror kind
Let the breath of the May-wind,
Wandering through their drooping sails,
Die on the green fields of Wales;
Let a dream like this restore
What his eye must see no more.
TRISTRAM.
Chill blows the wind, the pleasaunce-walks are drear:
Madcap, what jest was this, to meet me here?
Were feet like those made for so wild a way?
The southern winter-parlor, by my fay,
Had been the likeliest trysting-place to-day!—
"Tristram!—nay, nay—thou must not take my hand!—
Tristram!—sweet love!—we are betrayed—outplanned.
Fly—save thyself—save me! I dare not stay."
One last kiss first!—"'Tis vain—to horse—away!"
········
Ah! sweet saints, his dream doth move
Faster surely than it should,
From the fever in his blood!
